Knick knacks, white bags of trash, and several empty pizza boxes littered my room. They took up space; they wanted to strangle me.
I sat in my desk like a good boy. I was diligent in my studies, my teachers and parents approved. I wrote in my spiral bound notebook, a stapled packet of work laid next to it on my desk. My head turned to look at the packet. I would read the questions and then write my answer in my notebook. Back and forth, repeat.
The clock on my wall ticked. The ticking grew louder the more I tried to focus. Soon it sounded as if someone was chomping on chewing gum in my ear. I could feel my face getting redder, my chest felt tighter. The clock continued to chew gum in my ear.
My pen against the notebook paper slowed. It was as if I forgot how to write in the middle of a sentence. Worry joined my frustration. I set my pen down on the lined paper and looked helplessly at the amount of work on my left.
My hands sat defeated in my lap. I stared at the page. The clock chewed in my ear, my hand refused to write, and my work laughed at me.
Frustration built, and built, and built, and built. It coalesced as a hot burning in my chest. My face grew warmer and I felt the urge to hit something. My arms ached to be raised and slammed down on my desk. My legs yearned to run and kick until they burned and ached with regret.
I brought a fist up and slammed it down on my notebook with a thud. I did it again, and again, and again. Each blow tempted the next, goaded it into coming out of me. I wasn’t in control.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
My hand rotated so the knuckles took the brunt of the force.
I yelped and pulled my hand back. It looked red, the knuckles swollen and shifted away from each other. My hand trembled and I attempted to open it up to no avail.
The room quieted down. Then, the clock started to chew again. My work loomed; It taunted me.
I sat. My shoulders slumped as I looked down at my writing hand. It grew more and more tender as the seconds passed. My mind felt as if someone had poured cement into it. It was filling up my body from the inside and the realization that, now, I wouldn’t be able to do any work hit me.
My hand throbbed, the rest of me felt like an anchor at the bottom of the ocean. The work to my left chuckled evilly. The clock chewed.